Saturday Nights
by Outside Edge
Summary: What it is really like working a weekend shift at Station 51, from Roy DeSoto's POV


_**Authors Note: ** _

_I don't own them, I just play with them from time to time (and have done for the last 36 years!)_

_This is the first of what I am going to term 'The Lost Stories', they were written about 16 years ago for the KMG365 fansite at the dawn of fanzines and I thought that they had been lost forever - not so! I have dusted them off, done a bit of re-jigging where necessary, tried to correct the grammar (bear with me on that one!) and hope you enjoy them. Let me know._

**SATURDAY NIGHTS **

Saturday nights, man how I hate Saturday nights. The daytime is fine, the usual mixture of home improvement accidents, house fires and cat-stuck-in-a-tree rescues that make up a typical weekend. But when the sun goes down, it all changes and usually for the worse.

Gunshot victims - they always seem to happen on a Saturday night. Yeah, I know they're not confined to the weekend, but there are sure a lot more of them on a Saturday night. I've been in the Department over 10 years now and I've seen them grow. Everyone seems to be carrying a gun nowadays, as if it's some kind of fashion accessory. It's not confined to liquor store hold-ups either, I've seen people shot after minor traffic accidents or once in the car park of a store because they took too long parking.

It's getting dangerous out there. The Department is considering issuing us with protective vests like the cops. I don't think that's a good idea, to a bystander it makes us look like the cops, they have enough trouble recognising a fire-fighter as it is!

MVAs - they seem to happen more on Saturday nights, everyone dashing off to visit friends and relations or go out for a night on the town. Don't they realise that if they just slow down and pay more attention to what they're doing, they might just get there in one piece?

Drunks - boy what could I tell you about drunks on a Saturday night? You have your 'drunk and disorderly' usually phoned in as 'man down'. Heck can't anyone spot a drunk when they see one? They should be calling the police not the paramedics. We could be out there saving lives!

Then you have then'drunk as a skunk' motorist, you know, the type that causes a MVA with fatalities and then just walks away with hardly a scratch on them. There's a saying within EMS that states ' A blood level greater than 0.30 confers temporary immortality', those guys out there really believe it!

###

We're sitting watching some black and white movie that the TV station churns out at this time of night. A time when most people are asleep unless you're a cop or in the Fire Department. The film finishes.

"Time for bed, children" Captain Stanley says.

"Yes, Pa" we chorus. It is a well-practised routine.

Collecting our turnout pants and boots from the engine hall, we file into the dormitory.

I set my boots down by the side of my bunk and carefully fold the turnout pants down over them. I have to be able to get into them within minutes of being woken by the alarm.

Johnny grins as he does likewise. I wonder if he has played some sort of practical joke on Chet Kelly. Their ongoing practical joke war is moving up a gear again. I glance over to Chet's bunk, but everything looks okay. Besides, Johnny wouldn't fool with Chet's turnout gear. A life might depend on the speed of our response.

I climb into my bunk. From across the way I hear a loud squeak.

"Gage!" comes Chet's annoyed voice, which is followed by one of Henry's squeaky toys being thrown in Johnny's direction. I suspect that this is only the start of Johnny's payback plan for Chet's last prank with the shaving foam and Jell-O.

"Light's out, fellas," Captain Stanley's voice cuts through the laughter.

"Goodnight, Marco."

"Goodnight, Mike."

"Goodnight, Chet."

"Goodnight, Mary Ellen."

"Hey, Gage, you got a girl in here?"

"Fellas, cut the noise please."

In the silence that follows another squeak can be heard from Chet's bunk, followed by muffled laughter from the bunk next to me

###

12.01am

At midnight we get a call to a drugstore shooting. It's a DOA. A teenager is stretched out on the sidewalk. The cop shakes his head as we roll up.

We check the victim and confirm his death. The small crowd of onlookers glare at us as if we were to blame for this kid's death by arriving late. But in truth the kid had bought it before we had even rolled from the Station. Bullet through the heart, no chance and for what - a lousy 20 bucks, what price a life?

###

2.00am

A 2am call to a fire turns out to be a dumpster in cardboard city. A back alley used by those sleeping rough. Luckily it's a minor fire - one stray spark here and 10 people could die cocooned in their makeshift hovels of cardboard and packing cases.

A group stands around a oildrum fire. They look at us with wary eyes as we put out the blaze, frightened that we might turn our hoses on them and extinguish their meagre source of warmth in the dead of night.

We return to the station, grateful that we have warm dry beds to return to.

Chet discovers another squeak.

"Just how many damn toys does Henry have?" he mutters. I suspect a lot more than yesterday.

###

4.00am

It is 4am when the station alarm yet again rudely wakes us from our sleep.

"Squad 51, possible maternity case, apartment 2 1456 South Riding, cross is Ebury, apt 2 1-4-5-6 South Riding cross Ebury. Time out 4.02"

John groans as he rolls out of his bunk and into his turnout gear. All the other members of the crew roll over and try to get back to sleep. I suspect that they are quietly grateful that it is not them.

As we pass Cap's bunk on the way to the apparatus bay, I grab the address details from the pad on his table. Johnny runs to the front of the station and operates the door opener as I slide behind the wheel of the squad and start her up. Johnny dives in his door and grabs his helmet automatically adjusting the chin strap as we drive out into the night.

"It's my turn," John says as we drive through the now virtually deserted streets.

"You sure, Junior?" I ask, "I thought it was mine."

"Nope," John says emphatically, "You did that breech birth last month."

"Oh, come on! We were practically in Rampart's car park!" I protest, more to wind Johnny up than anything else.

"Still counts," John replies, stubbornly.

###

We are met at the door of the apartment by an anxious young man.

"Quick, it's my wife, I think she is having the baby!"

"Okay Sir, now just calm down," John says as we enter the apartment.

We make our way to the bedroom, the expectant father talking non-stop. I hope his wife isn't as nervous.

"I mean, it's not due yet," he says. "It's more difficult if it's pre-term isn't it?"

We enter the bedroom. It is evident that the woman is in the advanced stages of labour. I suspect we will have no time to transport to Rampart.

"Please!" she pleads, "The baby, it's coming!"

The husband is nervously hovering in the background, still talking nonsense about increased pre-term risks. I give Johnny a meaningful look. He takes the hint.

"Ah, Sir, we will need a few things here. Could you go and get some warm towels and then wait outside for the ambulance," he says, steering the man out of the door.

"Er, yeah, sure," the man stammers.

Johnny turns back, we exchange looks and he nods almost imperceptibly. He can see as well as I can that this first time mother needs all the reassurance she can get. As more 'senior' partner, I take the 'business end'.

John reaches for the biophone and sets it up, ready to transmit the woman's vital signs to Rampart.

"Okay now, just take it easy ma'am, everything is gonna be alright," he soothes, as he takes the BP cuff and stethoscope out of the trauma box. I know I have made the right choice. John is expert at putting people at their ease. Maybe it's that winning smile of his. I just don't seem to have the knack. No charisma I seem to recall John saying once.

I, meanwhile, have opened the OB kit and am pulling on my protective gloves prior to making an examination to determine close to the wire we are.

"OK, my name is John, this is my partner Roy," John says pleasantly trying to put the woman at her ease. " What's your name?"

"Eleanor," the woman gasps.

The expectant father reappears with the towels.

"Is everything alright?" he enquires.

"Fine, just fine," I assure him, "Shouldn't be too long now."

"Shouldn't you be transporting her to hospital?" he asks.

"There's no time," John replies, as he removes the stethoscope from his ears and notes down the woman's blood pressure.

"Home Birth, isn't that dangerous?" the man starts.

"Sir," John cuts in sharply, "The ambulance, you need to wait outside to guide them in."

"Oh yeah, right." The man retreats.

We breathe a collective sigh of relief.

"Don't mind Roger," Eleanor says, "He gets this way sometimes."

"Well, don't you worry ma'am, a home birth is just as safe as in hospital," I assure her.

"And anyway, you wouldn't have us there in hospital," John says grinning. He yelps as Eleanor grabs his arm tightly as another powerful contraction grips her.

"Okay, breath deeply, push down," I advise, "I can see the head."

The contraction passes and Eleanor relaxes her grip on John's arm. He rubs it where her fingernails have dug in.

"Sorry about that," Eleanor gasps.

"Perhaps we should get Roger back in here?" John jokes.

Eleanor's laugh is abruptly cut off by another contraction.

"Okay now, push, push down hard," I instruct. We are nearly there.

Suddenly I am holding the child in my hands.

"It's a boy," I say, "Do you want Roger to cut the cord?" I ask.

"No, he faints at the sight of blood," Eleanor replies. John wipes the perspiration from her forehead and joins me to cut the umbilical cord.

We wrap the infant in the warm towels that Roger brought earlier and John retreats to the corner of the room to carry out the necessary checks. Roger bursts into the room.

"The ambulance is here!" he cries.

"Ssh, you'll disturb our son," Eleanor replies.

John has finished his checks and is carrying the child back to his mother.

###

The sun is rising as we escort the new mother and her child to the waiting ambulance. I stretch to ease the kinks in my back and shoulders. John is whistling as he stows our gear in the Squad. Man, how I love Sunday mornings.


End file.
